A prosthetic mustache grower's plight to track down Mike Ditka for a Polaroid
A winner, right? Wrong.
When last we spoke, I made a solemn vow to go for the gold—to do everything in my power to secure the highest prosthetic mustache prize available at 826's charity Moustache-A-Thon. See, us prosthetic growers (I know, I know, I chickened out) were tasked with taking photos of mustaches about town, with bonus points awarded for:
1) being in the photo as well,
2) having our arms around the subject,
3) the subject being notable or famous, and
4) taking the picture on Polaroid film.
And the grand prize—grand, like in, no one will ever be able to top you in anything—would go to the person who secured a photo of Roland Burris. I would stop at nothing to make that happen.
That is, until I saw a friend's Twitter message that said Burris was in DC now. Duh.
Okay, that didn't work out like I had planned.
But then it hit me. In my days as comedy editor at Time Out Chicago, I had run into a few folks who knew another notable Chicago mustache: Mike Ditka. Admittedly, I'm not the biggest devotee of the man—my previous experience with him came in the form of second-hand stories my grandpa used to tell me about his coaching, and the time I dined at the former Nightingale's restaurant in suburban Highwood the night he got fired, and wound up viewing his drunken farewell party (complete with tearful speeches). But the man is one of the most recognized faces—nay, mustaches—in all of Chicago. I was sold. Using "methods," I tracked down a number I was told was the Coach's assistant's number, which I nonchalantly dialed.
"Yello!" came a thick, gruff man's voice. Oh shit, I thought, Ditka answered his own phone. But, for some reason, I had my doubts. What if this was actually someone else? I didn't want to sound like I was presuming anything. But I also didn't want to insult Ditka by assuming it was someone else. I needed to think of something.
"Hi, uh, my name is Steve Heisler, and I'm a writer at… a website." You know, in case he didn't know what Decider was—I had no time to explain! "I was hoping to do an interview…"
See, here's where things got tricky. But I thought of a genius solution.
"… with [really quietly] you [normal volume] Mike!"
Brilliant! That way, if it was Ditka, he would hear that I said the word you. And in the rare chance it wasn't him, I could just brush it off as his mishearing me. Well, it was him. The next thing I knew, he wanted to do the interview. But I needed to do it in person so I could get the photo, a fact I didn't want to tell him about right away, lest I scare him away. So, okay, I was to call him Sunday night when he returned to Chicago and see about doing the interview.
Sunday morning rolled around, and I decided I needed to be a bit more proactive, to make sure this thing happened. I texted (yep!) and asked if we were still on for an evening meet-up. He replied about three hours later, in all caps: "HOW ABOUT BY PHONE." Ugh. It was time to bite the bullet and explain, but I had to do it via text. I wrote a whole thing about how "our office" was doing this charity mustache thing where we have to take photos of famous people with mustaches (I added, "I know, a bit silly," just so he knew it was totally cool, or something), and assured him a picture of him would score me a lot of money—or so I hoped. I hurriedly typed all this, and nervously awaited the response. It came nearly instantly: "IT'S OK TOMORROW WOULD BE BETTER CALL ME IN AM."
I put out a frantic call on Twitter and Facebook, asking if anyone had a Polaroid camera I could borrow, but assumed no one did. The film itself is no longer being made, but apparently tons of people have stockpiled it; Bryan Bowden, a local comedian, responded immediately, offering up his camera plus extra film. The next morning, I headed over to the school where he was subbing to pick everything up, and I called Ditka again.
"Yello!"
"Hi Mike, it's Steve, the writer you talked to."
"Oh yeah. What is this again?"
"Well, I'd like to do an interview—"
"I told you, I can do it by phone!"
"Uh, the thing is…"
"Oh, right, you need a photo."
"Yes, please."
"Meet me at my restaurant tonight at 5, 5:30, 6, 6:30…"
[In squeaky teenager voice] "Sure thing! See you at 5:30 at your restaurant! Bye!"
The rest of the day was a blur. I situated myself at an Argo Tea near his restaurant in River North, just in case the trains ran late and the cabs all vanished. I wasn't sure how long Ditka would stick around waiting for me, and I knew he would remember this moment forever, including whether or not I stood him up. He would tell all my friends about what a dick I was to him—oh, how they would scorn me! It was then I realized I needed back-up, so I asked Decider compatriot David Wolinsky to join me at Ditka's.
I met Dave outside, and we entered the dark restaurant at exactly 5:30; the place was already buzzing with the chatter of early diners. I commented to Dave, "Do you think he's here?" Dave wasn't sure. We glanced out to the dining floor, scanning the faces at every table. I realized I had to ask someone where the man was, so I moseyed over to the hostess's area, determined to navigate my way around the jovial fella in front of me. It's at the moment I was about to brush past him that he turned around.
Ditka.
"Hi! It's me, Steve! The guy for the…"
He reached out his hand to shake mine, and didn't look me in the eye. Instead, he addressed a gaggle of fourtysomething ladies. "This is the guy who couldn't do the interview over the phone. He wanted to see me."
"Well, he wants to see if you're lying to him," one replied.
"I'll lie anyway," Ditka deadpanned. The gaggle giggled.
He led David and me to a table in the middle of the resto, and we conducted the interview. Now, mind you, this wasn't really for anything pressing, so I went with our Debaser format, in which people are allowed to plug whatever they want in exchange for an embarrassing story. Pretty multi-purpose. The result of our conversation is going up on Monday, but suffice to say, the Coach is not the kind of person who gets embarrassed easily. Or ever. Nor does he look people in the eye when he talks to you—and when he does, it's very intimidating. But he seems like a genuinely nice guy, who was willing to pose for this ridiculous Polaroid (I swear this was taken Monday; I think the flim is a bit old) for charitable purposes.
So, yeah. I went through a lot of effort to get that one. But it saddens me to report that I did not win the competition. I was told it was quality of entries over quantity. The girl who won took a bunch of photos of her hanging with fictional mustaches like Cap'n Crunch guy and Pringles floating head made me laugh, yes, for a moment.
But if nailing numbers 1-4 in the requirements wasn't enough for these judges, it's going to take a miracle to win them over. At least I won the crowd: Here's the reaction shot when fellow contestants saw my entry:
David Wolinsky
Next week's challenge is to create or update a Wikipedia page about a mustache—it's purposely vague—and take a screenshot of our efforts. Tune in next week for more on that, and check back soon for David Wolinsky's mustache update.
